The grand hall of the royal palace was unusually silent. The usual murmurs of courtiers and the rustle of silk were absent, replaced by a tense stillness that clung to the air like smoke. King Alaric sat upon his throne, his fingers drumming against the armrest, eyes fixed on the flickering flames of the hearth. The fire seemed to dance with a life of its own, casting elongated shadows that twisted and writhed across the marble floor.
Lord Malric, the Duke of Westmoor, stepped forward hesitantly, a scroll clutched tightly in his gloved hands.
"Your Majesty," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, "another report from the western provinces. The villagers speak of… signs."
King Alaric's gaze shifted to the duke, his eyes narrowing. "What signs?"
Malric unrolled the scroll, revealing a series of hastily drawn symbols. At the center was a depiction of a phoenix, its wings outstretched, flames engulfing its form.
"This symbol has appeared on the doors of several noble estates," Malric explained. "Burned into the wood, yet no one sees who does it. The marks are fresh, the embers still glowing when discovered."
A murmur spread through the assembled nobles.
"Impossible," scoffed Lady Elira, her jeweled fingers clutching a goblet of wine. "She is dead. We all saw the pyre."
"Did we?" came a voice from the shadows.
All eyes turned to the figure emerging from the dim corridor. Clad in a cloak of midnight blue, the royal spymaster, Seraphine, approached the throne.
"Your Majesty," she said, bowing slightly, "the rumors persist. Not just in the west, but across the kingdom. Whispers of a queen reborn, of vengeance incarnate."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "Rumors can be quelled."
Seraphine nodded. "Yes, but these rumors come with consequences. The duke's lands are failing. Crops wither overnight, livestock vanish, and his men report nightmares that drive them to madness."
Malric's face paled. "It's true. My steward was found muttering about flames and shadows before he took his own life."
The king rose from his throne, the weight of his crown seeming heavier than ever. "We must act. Send emissaries to the affected regions. Offer aid, investigate these occurrences."
"And if it's her?" Seraphine asked quietly.
Alaric's eyes burned with a mix of fear and determination. "Then we remind her who holds the throne."
⸻
In the days that followed, the palace buzzed with activity. Messengers were dispatched, and spies infiltrated the western provinces. Yet, the reports that returned only deepened the mystery.
Villagers spoke of a woman cloaked in fire, her eyes glowing like embers. She moved through the night, leaving behind scorched earth and branded symbols. Those who tried to confront her were found days later, their bodies untouched but their minds shattered.
In the capital, unease grew. Nobles began to question their loyalties, some even fleeing to distant lands. The court's once unshakable confidence wavered, and the king's authority was challenged in hushed conversations behind closed doors. 
One evening, a package arrived at the palace gates. No courier, no note—just a simple, ornate box. Inside, a mirror. But this was no ordinary mirror. When gazed upon, it reflected not the viewer's image but a pair of burning eyes, staring back with an intensity that pierced the soul.
The queen consort, upon seeing it, screamed and collapsed, her mind overwhelmed by the vision.
King Alaric, upon hearing of the incident, ordered the mirror destroyed. But when his guards attempted to shatter it, the glass remained intact, the fiery eyes unblinking.
Desperation took hold. Alaric convened a council of his most trusted advisors. Among them was General Thorne, a seasoned warrior known for his ruthlessness.
"We must strike first," Thorne insisted. "If she is truly back, we cannot wait for her to gather strength."
"And risk open war?" countered Seraphine. "The people already fear her. If we attack without proof, we may drive them to her side."
Alaric weighed the options, the burden of leadership pressing heavily upon him. "Prepare the army, but do not engage. We will send a delegation, offer parley. If she seeks peace, we can negotiate. If not…"
He left the sentence unfinished, but the implication was clear.
————————————————————————————————
Twilight had fallen, but the horizon glowed unnaturally, a distant shimmer of crimson flickering just above the trees. Not fire. Not yet. But the promise of it.
He clenched his fists.
They had burned her alive. Or so they thought. They'd offered her corpse to the flames and called it justice, washing their hands with lies and ash.
Now the fire walked.
He turned, slowly, as if the walls themselves whispered of her.
"She was never just a girl," he murmured, more to himself than the empty hall. "She was the storm we tried to cage. And we gave her every reason to return as a queen of ruin."
Behind him, the cursed mirror still sat covered in black cloth, yet he could feel the heat of those burning eyes on his back—watching, waiting.
For the first time in years, King Alaric felt it.
The throne room had emptied, but the silence now pressed against his ears with the weight of a scream he could not silence.
He stood before the tall windows overlooking the west, where the sky bled into fire-streaked dusk. No flames burned there. Not yet. But the horizon pulsed red all the same—a warning, not from nature, but from her.
He had dreamed of this moment, though he would never admit it. In those dreams, she returned with rage, with ruin, with eyes like scorched suns and a voice like judgment. In those dreams, he had always woken sweating, telling himself she was dead. That the pyre had swallowed her. That ashes could not rise again.
But the air told another story now.
Whispers licked the corners of the palace like smoke. The sigils burned into noble doors—a phoenix with embered wings. The cursed soil that refused to yield. The whispers that filled their dreams at night and drove grown men into madness.
This wasn't fear. He had known fear before—in battle, in politics, even in betrayal.
This wasn't guilt either. Guilt required conscience, and Alaric had sacrificed that long ago to keep his throne.
No.
What crept into his bones now, what coiled tight around his lungs like a serpent made of smoke and prophecy—was inevitability.
She was coming.
She wasn't marching with armies. She was peeling their kingdoms apart from the inside—village by village, soul by soul. She was turning the people against them without a single declaration of war.
She had learned everything from them—the cruelty, the deception, the patience. And she had twisted it into something far more terrifying.
If all the rumours are true then — She was becoming something old. Something sovereign.
And still, he'd underestimated her.
Alaric swallowed hard, but it felt like glass down his throat. Behind him, the cursed mirror—now draped in cloth—seemed to pulse with a faint warmth. Not light. Not magic. But presence.
He didn't turn.
He couldn't.
Because if he looked again, he feared what he'd see wasn't just her eyes—but the end of his reign, reflected back at him.
...............…
And somewhere in the west, beneath a sky painted with fire, the queen smiled.